


into the heat of it

by entremelement



Series: nomenclatures [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Brazil, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, on hunger grief and tearing away from the familiar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25310467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: “Are all sunsets in Rio this beautiful?” Oikawa asks, catching the last bit of awe in Shoyo’s eyes before they turn to focus on him. The waves crash against each other, and it makes a sound that Oikawa finds familiar, as rain against pavement. What every single day in Rio must have been to Shoyo, face warm in the afternoon setting sun.Oikawa and the unraveling of one (1) Hinata Shoyo.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Series: nomenclatures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833325
Comments: 21
Kudos: 194





	into the heat of it

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, fellas! It's my first time writing porn (with SO MANY feelings) so pls. Pls be kind to me, lmao
> 
> This is all [Pau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SJpyeongpyeong/)'s fault, I swear. 
> 
> Warnings: not dubcon, they're sober enough for sexual congress. Also no infidelity involved. With that said, read on.

Oikawa Tooru, 21, single, current residence: Argentina. 

Let it be known that he is, as of late, in Brazil with the rest of Club Atletico San Juan volleyball team--currently out of sight and (fortunately) out of mind. 

That he shaved off the rest of his niceties and yelled with all the power from the deep well of his diaphragm once he spotted Hinata Shoyo--the devil chibi--in the flesh. _Is this fucking real_ the first words comprehensible enough in Japanese to be understood by the kid, no, _man_ in his midst. 

That he, before screaming, spots the familiar tangerine shade in the moonlight, fully convinced that he’s haunted by past ghosts of overpowering inadequacy as his stomach lurches and threatens to empty itself on the boardwalk. 

That he almost projectile vomits when the orange-haired man turns towards his direction, bearing all the childish joy that arises when you’re ineffably stuffed with good food.

That instead of emptying his stomach contents, the native Japanese in him lurches out instead.

That he, in staring, found that one (1) Hinata Shoyo, then-stuff of nightmares, is now one (1) Hinata Shoyo, now all toned muscle, two shades darker and quite his _type_.

That Oikawa Tooru, 21, single, found himself rooted on the spot, fumbling for Portuguese, English, heck, even Japanese, to find the right combination of words to say _have a drink with me sometime._

* * *

And they do. Have a drink, that is. Two. Four. Oikawa throws back another tall glass of _Brahma_ and it makes its unceremonious empty landing on the table. Make that five.

 _It’s so good to see you again, Great Ki--Oikawa-san_ , in quick Japanese, none of the sluggish, groping Portuguese present in his voice. A hand on the back of his, another on his knee. Oikawa hadn’t noticed that Hinata’s hand slid below the table and is now rubbing, quite frankly, suggestive circles on his bad knee with a rough thumb.

They’d quickly shuffled towards the nearest _cerveseria_ once sand has been brushed off of their beings. As with any bar, the table is small, candle in the middle, stools too high and the rest of the people inside noisy. They made do with what’s outside, their faces stroked gently by the night wind.

 _Have you ever tried Brahma, Oikawa-san?_

Oikawa convinces himself that he’s _still_ sober, functioning; it was strange to see the small fry talk about alcohol like an adult.

Oikawa reminds himself that 19 is not too far from 22, and that 21, the age teetering back and forth from teenage to adult, has its fair share of experiences, too. Oikawa takes it.

19’s a good look on Hinata Shoyo, he muses. Oikawa resists the urge to call him chibi-chan every chance he gets. He didn’t lie, nineteen’s certainly done wonders: hair all tousled, back broad enough for tank tops to cling onto, arms toned enough. He sees it, sees the history written all over the man: a cut on his forearm, dismissed as a misstep, an oft-forgotten five o’ clock shadow, tan lines spanning from shoulder to the dip near his chest, from right above his knee to—

 _Hey, Oikawa._ In an instant, all politeness dissipated. It hasn’t even been a split second after a glass has been set down and the nineteen-year-old in this man tumbles into his arms, grip tight on his biceps. Numerous pairs of eyes focus on the staggering man in his arms and he laughs nervously until one by one, they go back to their own mundane worlds.

 _You—were you really this built back in Japan, huh._ Oikawa senses the disdain in his voice as he hoists Hinata back up on his feet, neon red on his face doing nothing but to show all the instances he missed, all the growth he’s willed into his own body. Of staring through the mesh of the net, at Tobio’s untouchable middle blocker, now squarely in his arms.

“Let’s get ourselves someplace else now, chibi-chan, yeah?”

At this, Shoyo quips _sure, yours or mine_ before sending him with a wink, and he hears nothing else, not even the tall waves crashing on the beach with each pull the moon makes.

* * *

No more than a second inside the elevator and Shoyo lunged at him, impelled by a deep hunger. A hand snakes itself onto Oikawa’s nape, clasping it tight. _Come here_. 

Oikawa could do nothing else but to respond to this heated call, meeting Shoyo head-on with an equally scalding kiss, and with his tongue halfway down Shoyo’s throat, elevator doors slide open.

Gasps, dribbling spit and sloppy steps toward 1306. An open door, Shoyo’s firm hand on his chest, a careful shove, and a mechanical click as the door closes. 

Staggering towards Oikawa’s hotel proved to be a minor feat compared to the struggle to maintain self-restraint before Shoyo, who’s now kneeling before him like the Great King he is— _was._

“Hey are you sure about th—“ Oikawa punctuates his sentence with a sharp intake of air through clenched teeth. Not a minute has passed inside his hotel room and Shoyo’s already down on his knees, the god of hunger in his midst, fingers grazing skin as he undoes the denim shorts with precision.

With each unintentional touch of fingers on the small of his hip, Oikawa sinks deeper and deeper into his blind desire. There was an overhead closet light above them. To the right, the bathroom. Five long strides, the bed. Oikawa falters; he falls into it, lets greed swallow him whole. 

Even breaths, then. His chest rises and falls--and along the rhythm of it, thoughts of Shoyo’s disheveled hair, scrunched up face, eyes screwed shut from desire. It fills him, makes him hard. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he refuses to deal with it--it’s got to be the image of him in between Shoyo’s legs, of his name being moaned over and over and over. A light sheen of sweat all over Shoyo’s body. A reckoning.

He falls deeper into his desire when Shoyo tugs at his boxers’ waistband, pulling it to his knees to reveal a sudden and unexpected hardness, right in his face. 

“Hey,” with a voice deep but strained. Oikawa lets his arm fall down only to catch Shoyo’s jaw gently in his hand. “Are you sure about this, maybe we should both get some sleep.”

 _And risk you slipping away in the morning, no thanks._ With that, Shoyo takes him wholly in his mouth, eager to devour. Oikawa dives headfirst into the heat of it, melts into the warmth of tongue swirling around him.

“Fuck,” Oikawa sheds off the last of his self-restraint and bucks against Shoyo, whose hand now pumps the base of his shaft, coming along the rhythm of his mouth. Shoyo sinks his other palm gently on his inner thigh, hot, sliding it upward, towards the small of his back, the dip where the last of his spine meets his bottom. 

Oikawa’s no stranger to steamy nights—Argentina’s filled with strangers just as ready to pounce on someone new, someone as much of a stranger to them. It’s just that, right now, there was no sort of expectation when the word lingers in the air. No such warning as Tobio’s beloved middle blocker, kneeling, sucks the soul out of him.

He was unbearably stiff. Oikawa screws his eyes shut, tight enough to see floaters in the dark. When Shoyo undulates in his movement, reversing and then all at once engulfing him, he sees red, and then blue, and then the whole fucking spectrum. 

As Shoyo remains unstoppable with his rhythm, Oikawa’s hands rake through orange hair and fists them—gentle enough to do him no harm but firm enough to goad him on. In reply, Shoyo pulls him in by the small of his back, taking in so much of what he could. Pulling him in over and over and _over_ , never forgetting to lap the rough of his tongue against the tip, pumping the shaft where his mouth had been, motions unrelenting. Something about the way Shoyo was so warm, so irresistibly scalding, prods Oikawa on when he moves his hips in time with Shoyo. 

Once Oikawa got a few small thrusts in, Shoyo desists, and then moans with his mouth full of Oikawa. The vibration sends shivers up and down Oikawa’s spine, electricity surging through him. Shoyo’s so, so good with his mouth, with his hands—from where did he pick this up? 

At once, he releases Oikawa from his mouth with an audible pop. 

Oikawa flutters back to reality; he hadn’t noticed the way his head was thrown back, so he dips his head back down to check on Shoyo. He wasn’t prepared for it: the sight of Shoyo kneeling down on the soft carpet, eyes watery from the mild gag reflex, palming his own aching erection through khaki, and how it arrests him at once. _Oikawa, please,_ his voice resolute and absolutely desperate. When Shoyo groans, struggling to undo his shorts, Oikawa tears the rest of his clothes off and wordlessly trails towards the bed, throwing himself in it.

“Here. Come here. Quick.” And as Oikawa switches the bedside lamp on, blindly illuminating the room amber, he sees Shoyo hastily stripping himself. And then his tank top comes next: it’s peeled off, leaving only heavy white lines on his otherwise tanned skin. 

Oikawa could not, for the life of him, have foreseen this—Shoyo was a sight to behold. He no longer holds any of the chibi-chan he’d seen on the other side of the net. All that Shoyo is now is all muscle and dominancy, all heat and desire.

His hand pulls on the bedside drawer handle and rummages for a tube, Shoyo not taking his eyes off of his bareness on the bed, slowly approaching.

And at once, Oikawa takes the black tube in his hand and squeezes a decent amount of lube on his hands. Shoyo, eager and cunning, puts a firm knee on the mattress. He crawls towards him leisurely, eyeing Oikawa throbbing before him. Shoyo, as Oikawa heaves out a sigh, straddles Oikawa below him, both knees sinking on either side of his hips. 

So Oikawa beckons him, and faithfully, Shoyo bends down and ravages Oikawa’s lips, tongues tasting a little bit like _Brahma,_ a lot sweeter than the alcohol itself _._ Oikawa’s hips rise against Shoyo’s, just as raring, just as eager to be taken. Carefully, Oikawa’s lube-drizzled hand finds its way down, stopping short of Shoyo’s entrance. 

“Mmm,” Oikawa starts, detaching from the kiss, panting into Shoyo’s mouth. “Be good for me, okay.” He hooks an arm around his waist to reach an already twitching entrance, mercilessly stroking the puckered-up hole with a finger. Shoyo moans at the touch, and wills his upper body forward for better reach.

With Shoyo trailing starved kisses on Oikawa’s lobe and jaw, Oikawa pushes a slow finger in. When Shoyo yelps, he adds one more. 

“Tell me,” Oikawa says, smug, smirking at the sight of Shoyo being unraveled. “Tell me what you want, again.” The groans that came out of Shoyo were music. _Fuck me,_ in bated breath, a growl that could no longer contain itself.

And then Oikawa’s smugness spurs Shoyo on: he takes Oikawa’s stiffness into his hand and strokes him, reaching for the lube mindlessly thrown on the bed and dribbling it onto his hands before setting it back down. First, he ghosts this hand over the length of it and without any sort of notice, he smooths it on Oikawa’s cock, gliding effortlessly before pumping once, twice, and then a lot, settling into a steady but hurried pace. Oikawa, surprised, brings his other hand to fumble for the smoothness of Shoyo’s bare thigh and grip for his life. “Fuck, Shoyo,” and he adds another finger, probing deep within. 

The search was quick, and with a shudder, Oikawa mercilessly prods Shoyo’s prostate over and over. Eyes glazed over with desire, lips slightly parted, Oikawa stares as Shoyo rocked back and forth, fucking himself on his fingers, the hand on his cock unwavering. 

He stroked the thick walls within Shoyo, thrusting in and out of him, fingers curling, slamming ruthlessly deeper, hitting Shoyo in all the right places. Shoyo thrashes about, backing himself up on his fingers, greedy. So wanting, so ardent. 

A thrust and a moan. _Oikawa. I want._ Another thrust, sweat dripping all over the vast expanse of Shoyo’s tanned chest. _You. In me._

The god of hunger has spoken. 

Oikawa slips his fingers out from deep within Shoyo, who responds with a quiet whimper and a deep exhale. Shoyo, finding the sensation new, lets go of his grip on Oikawa and plants both hands on the bed, on either side of Oikawa’s head.

It bears no stressing that the wind gets knocked out of Oikawa when Shoyo stares at him with such intensity; outside, Shoyo’s just his companion, a happenstance in the middle of Rio de Janeiro. Inside, within these four walls, Shoyo’s just _his._

And his alone to wreck. 

Shoyo is an apparition when he towers over Oikawa, lifting himself up, rising in preparation. He takes the lube and liberally dribbles more of it on Oikawa’s length, tip glistening. Oikawa lines himself up and teases his rim with the tip. Shoyo, feeling the cold liquid on him, whines and attempts to wriggle down on it, only to be caught in Oikawa’s steady grip on the smooth underside of his thighs. 

“God, you’re so beautiful like this. Indulge me: _say please, chibi-chan_.”

At this, Shoyo winces, his face twisting into a scowl all too familiar, reserved only for Tobio. For a moment, Oikawa revels in this triumph—a face he made _only_ for Tobio, used on him. 

But then Oikawa is taken aback: Shoyo swats both his hands off his thighs as he bends down, pressing his forehead against Oikawa’s. With a hand, he takes Oikawa’s jaw aggressively and tilts it up. 

What Shoyo spews out next sends Oikawa, makes his stomach lurch: _Call me by my name as I ride you senseless._

Shoyo tears away from the hairbreadth of distance between them, eyes deep and deathly. Filled with so much desire and vengeance. He takes both his hands and plants them firmly on Oikawa’s hips, no allowance for struggle. 

Oikawa’s certainly not sober, all intoxication that comes when Shoyo bears down on him makes his mind swim in Shoyo’s deep sea of devotion. Perfectly lined up, Shoyo allows Oikawa to slide in. A bit of a hitch, and Shoyo grimaces when the first inch goes in, breaths coming in shallow. 

“Shoyo, Shoyo. Shoyo. _Shoyo._ ” A soothing hand finds its way on Shoyo’s thigh, now trembling from holding himself up. “Let me, please.”

For a moment, the brief spectrum that flashes before him when Shoyo knelt before him made itself known once again. Oikawa glues his eyes shut, hands on Shoyo, as he slid in deeper. Shoyo lowered himself in time, trembling wildly, swallowing his groan; the way Oikawa bottomed out so easily sent electricity pulsing through him, right down to the tip of his cock, twitching.

“Shoyo,” Oikawa starts, running his hands from Shoyo’s thighs to his waist. “Shoyo.” Skin burns at the touch, and Shoyo, with trembles dwindling, answers with a groan through his teeth. 

Oikawa gently tugs him by the torso and lays him down softly on his chest, Shoyo’s face nestled in the crook of his neck. Breathy, the next words whispered against the shell of Shoyo’s ear come out like hazy gasps. 

“Shoyo, baby, we’ll take it slow,” Oikawa says, voice sweet enough. Arms wrap around Shoyo, fingertips stroking lines on the small of his back and on his nape. His hands map out the geography of Shoyo’s back, leaving an electrifying trail in its wake. 

When Shoyo turns to face him with eyes bearing an abyssal longing, deep enough for Oikawa to get lost in, his breath hitches. It’s excruciating enough for the both of them, but Oikawa knows not to harm. “I promise.” 

Oikawa had never been one to take things slow. Put it in, blow your load, and he’s out the door. For Shoyo, he’d take him gradual, breathy, agonizing.

_Just move, Oikawa. I can take it._

The way Oikawa’s muscles flex when he takes Shoyo into his arms, crossed on his back. The way it unfolds to hook his hands onto Shoyo’s shoulders, careful not to break apart sinews, careful not to press too hard into bone. The way Shoyo’s cheek presses gently into his chest as he relaxes. 

So Oikawa moves. He rolls his hips back into the mattress, and Shoyo hisses in time. Oikawa plants tiny kisses on the beading sweat on his forehead, on the curve of his nose, on the temple. 

Shoyo moans into his neck when Oikawa raises his hips and slips it in a second time. And then a third. A fourth, too. Expletives come in murmurs, in hot breaths, through kisses. How beautifully Oikawa had come to unravel Shoyo, how feverish his desire came about: in slipping in and out of him in stutters and then in quick motions without so much as a hitch.

Shoyo was tight, and in cautious unraveling, Oikawa holds his fiery delirium under control, but not for much longer.

“Oh god, shit, Shoyo,” with each blazing thrust, he burns deeper, the prism of colors brighter. His hands slide down from Shoyo’s shoulders, down to the curve of his back and finally, he palms Shoyo’s ass and grips. “You tightened right up, god.” This as a cue to finally take him whole, moving faster and faster, slamming into him with abandon. 

Quick and selfish, the way Shoyo rotates his own hips, rocking forwards with a shudder when his own movements hit the prostate with a vengeance. 

Oikawa, hands on Shoyo’s ass, drives deeper into him, thrusting in time with Shoyo’s momentum, all self-control gone. 

Each thrust heaved out by Oikawa from below Shoyo elicited such delicious groaning. The rhythm was too good, too perfect. Electricity in his veins, he pumps harder and deeper in Shoyo, eagerly awaiting his own climax.

Oikawa glances briefly at Shoyo, face still close to his, before he stops his steady, hazy breaths with a kiss. Shoyo took him so willingly, and he tightens up with each instance of Oikawa slamming into him. 

“Shoyo, I—I’m close.” Oikawa breaks away from the kiss and sees Shoyo rising, bouncing upright. In an instant, Shoyo takes his own pulsing cock, starved for attention, and wraps strong fingers around it, jerking it in time with thrusts.

 _You feel_ _so good in me,_ Shoyo spits out, and at that instant, Oikawa seizes the opportunity to thrust even faster, making Shoyo clamp down on his length a little bit tighter. 

“Fuck, hold on,” Oikawa sputters out, lifting Shoyo by the hips. Getting both of them close to the edge was one thing, but driving it home, even if it risks him getting half-soft, is another. Shoyo, unwilling to release, squeezes in on Oikawa and elicits a moan from him. For a moment, the spectrum reappears. Oikawa waves it off and lifts Shoyo higher. “On your belly.” 

There was that scowl on his face again as Shoyo feels so hollow—it’s no wonder: Oikawa glides out of him fully, but he could do nothing but to cater to every one of Oikawa’s gentle requests. Oikawa rolls to the side, and swings himself off the bed, careful not to let his already sensitive cock graze the sheets. He wheedles Shoyo on his stomach, cautious enough not to let sinews on his back undo at his touch, meticulous in each movement. 

Oikawa smooths a hand from the small of Shoyo’s back to the downward slope of his spine. Shoyo’s upper body’s dipped forward, shoulders digging into the mattress. Failing to hold back any longer, he kneels on the bed and again positions himself at Shoyo’s entrance. With a hand, he places a firm palm on Shoyo’s ass, thumb grazing the pulsating hole. Eyes trail to the familiar head of orange and he sees the same starved eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze wordlessly.

He tears away from the impromptu staring match. Instead of rising to continue what he started, Oikawa bends down and palms the underside of Shoyo’s thighs, breaths hot and stuttered, ghosting on Shoyo's hole. This was too beautiful of a moment to pass up on, so he seizes it. 

"Open wide, Shoyo." And with that, Oikawa starts with a slight lick, and then runs the flat of his tongue over Shoyo's puckering entrance. As Shoyo moans into the sheets, he circles the rim with his tongue and finds joy in driving Shoyo wild, in finally making him quiver under his touch. 

He teases with the tip of his tongue in ever so slightly, and pushes a finger in as he laps at the hole so eagerly, just as hungry. He removes the finger and his two hands hoist Shoyo’s thighs up, already trembling from pleasure. Shoyo thrashes about, flailing his calves in different directions, hands grasping what he could of the sheets, moaning his name over and over: _yes, Oikawa, god yes, right there. Oikawa. Oikawa._

It wasn't enough. The painful throb of Oikawa's cock, dripping with precum, twitching at Shoyo’s strangled noises of immense pleasure, had to be dealt with. 

And so Oikawa's eyes glaze over. He pushes himself up, kneels and lays a palm flat on Shoyo's ass. "God, I want you so bad." 

The god of hunger wants more, as he’s truly insatiable; Oikawa slides himself in effortlessly, and both of them groan in unison. 

He pumps himself in, pace getting quicker by the minute, feeling himself throbbing with each thrust. The way Shoyo's walls close in on him egg him on. Shoyo, wriggling beneath him, close enough and warm to touch, sends him to the edge. It’s captivating when Shoyo stares at him from below, chin on his shoulder, desperate to make eye contact. Oikawa, enamored, slides in and out, tighter with each thrust, Shoyo’s core hotter as he hits deep. 

Oikawa slams into Shoyo, again and again, and when hips meet Shoyo’s cheeks, he finds himself wanting more and more of this sensation, this vigorous slap of skin against skin, this side of Shoyo. Only _he_ was _this_ fortunate to see him completely unraveled. 

His other hand makes its way to curl at the hip, stroking small circles with his thumb. “Make yourself come, baby. I can handle myself.” Oikawa breathes out, in a reverie when he feels Shoyo pleasure himself from underneath him, the throbbing cock in his hand impatient in its minute twitches, in his quick strokes. 

Oikawa arches his back and forces himself in deeper, unceasing in his ministrations, a steady gaze on his back, where bone meets muscle, where skin turns flushed.

“Oh fuck, I’m close— _Shoyo_.” Thoughts are near-incomprehensible in his head, what’s left of his mind only lingers on the fact that Shoyo feels so, _so_ good wrapped around him, enveloping him in a warmth unique only to him. Only to him.

It’s Shoyo that comes first, jerking forward into his hand, spurting out his load to cover the entirety of a gently closed fist, excess spilling onto the sheets. A few more erratic jerks into his hand coax Oikawa to pound into him harder.

And then Oikawa. When he comes, Shoyo clenches him hard—hard enough for him to throb against the euphoria of walls closing in on him. Hard enough for him to savor, hard enough for breaths to come in shallow, for him to hunch over Shoyo and drive himself into him. 

For his hands to reach out and clutch at both Shoyo’s shoulders as he fills him up.

Oikawa staggers with the pace. It comes out irregular in his climax, feeling all his muscles flex as he plants himself deeper inside, spurting. It had him wired, his shoulders feeling so littered with spines digging into his skin. He shuts his eyes and heaves out a groan.

Gently, then, as soft as the sheets tangled beneath them, he pulls out and reaches for tissues by the bedside to clean both him and Shoyo up. 

As soon as he’s done disposing of his waste, he finds Shoyo on his side, cheek on pillow, staring. Just that—staring at him.

“Anything left on my face?” Oikawa padded towards him slowly, rubbing his cheek with a wrist. He settles on the bed right next to Shoyo, not minding the stains they left on the sheets. 

Shoyo tugs at him, pulls him in his arms—both bearing such unusual and surprising new strength—and nestles in the crook of Oikawa’s neck, breathing him in, humming against his skin. 

_My name sounds nice on your lips, Oikawa-san._ Shoyo mutters into his collarbone, and Oikawa chuckles. He takes a hand and strokes the small of his back, reaching upwards to his nape, and finally to thread his fingers into Shoyo’s hair, all disheveled from being held onto. Oikawa massages his scalp lightly—a gesture he’s always done for himself for drowsiness to set in. 

Shoyo tilts his head up and trails kisses on Oikawa’s neck, to his slack jaw. His lips find Oikawa’s once again, earnest and chaste when he pecks lightly. “Sleep?” Oikawa whispers, wind finding its way into Shoyo’s parted lips. Shoyo nods sleepily in reply, eyelashes already fluttering as he struggles to keep himself awake.

Oikawa burrows his face into Shoyo’s orange hair—he perceives the same sunshine burning into him, only now, it’s tempered gracefully by Brazil. “Good night then, Shoyo.”

* * *

Maybe Brazil is around three thousand kilometers away from Argentina, yes, painfully so, but Oikawa is willing to make concessions.

That is, until he sees Shoyo smiling into his phone’s receiver, talking his head off.

Shoyo doesn’t know he’s being watched; Oikawa simply places a firm hand on the floorboards he now finds familiar--he’s already memorized all corners of Shoyo’s apartment by heart. A low bed, low enough for Oikawa to reach over the edge and place both palms on the floor. The Karasuno jacket lazily swaying when wind finds itself tumbling in the room. The sandy flip-flops. The rituals.

Knows when Pedro comes home, knows when to hide behind the bedroom doors. Knows that he can’t just show up and disrupt the life he’s lived in Brazil. Knows that Shoyo permits him in this life like he permits sand into everything he’s owned thus far. Knows that permit is not the right word for it. Allow? Authorize? He’s yet to pin the feeling down, the word down.

With the door ajar, he hears laughter that almost mocks his existence in Brazil, him sticking out like a sore thumb. He sees Shoyo, propped up on his dining chair, looking out the window.

“Okay, so listen,” Shoyo has a vulnerable air about him when he says this, both feet stubbornly on the dining table, almost knocking the vase with freshly-bought flowers over. The sun hits orange directly, and for a moment, Oikawa feels himself sink deeper into the mattress. “Yeah, but. Oh, stop, you’re fucking kidding me. Ushiwaka would never.”

And then a voice from the other side of the room. “Kageyama?” It’s Pedro, and he falls into a familiar spiral, slides under the covers.

“ _Sim!_ ”

Oikawa’s picked up a little bit of Portuguese in his days with Shoyo, and he knows.

He just knows when he’s being invasive.

* * *

And then one of many unassuming days in Brazil:

Wind gets knocked out of Oikawa for all the right (wrong) reasons. When sunset hits the far end of the horizon, the orange of it blazing through the sea, cutting through waves. It doesn’t sparkle, not at all, it’s a path of arson. Its glare unforgiving, and blindingly so. 

“Are all sunsets in Rio this beautiful?” Oikawa asks, catching the last bit of awe in Shoyo’s eyes before they turn to focus on him. The waves crash against each other, and it makes a sound that Oikawa finds familiar, as rain against pavement. What every single day in Rio must have been to Shoyo, face warm in the afternoon setting sun. 

They each hold pocket-sized pastries, with Shoyo’s already half-consumed, and yet, it’s still a show of restraint. Had he been alone, Oikawa’s so certain that it would have been inhaled in no time. 

Oikawa takes in the scent of salt, amplified by Rio humidity. Amplified by heat, and the desire to take everything in before it all crumbles into microscopic rubble in his memory. Just as easily as sandcastles are trampled upon. Just as fleeting as the grit of sand. Just as quiet when Shoyo, all muscle and wonder, whispers _I love yous_ against the shell of his ear, in the dead of the night.

“Yeah. Each day’s a surprise,” Shoyo says, chicken pastel filling dripping hot from one corner of his mouth. How innocuous, when a gaze reserved for the horizon is held down in place with his. Something about arson and the sea, and the way it reflects on Shoyo’s eyes—amber, muted, comforting. No longer an ominous destruction.

Oikawa takes this in, too, before it turns to dust.

* * *

Oikawa pins the word down: intrude.

* * *

Even as the sun hasn’t quite peeked out from the horizon, Oikawa dutifully gets up, smooths a hand on the bed he’s made and willingly unmakes it for the last time with Shoyo, something forlorn pooling from deep within him. Eventually, it’s a silent desolation that drowns both of them.

It’s faint, but he perceives it: both of them hadn’t realized how tethered they were to each other in the brief time Oikawa had shuffled into Rio. Into Shoyo’s life.

The banality of it shifts from a definite impossibility into a blooming restlessness. Of what could be, of what Oikawa is bound to make happen. 

Oikawa takes this loneliness for his own. Takes Shoyo’s anguish from being slowly untethered to him, and claims it. Nobody, not even Tobio, can say with utter certainty that Shoyo’s grief belongs to him. 

“ _Esta tristeza,”_ Oikawa hums against the crook of Shoyo’s neck, against the sinews on his back, “ _esta dolor,”_ he presses a quiet, resolute kiss on the dip below his wing bone. “ _Todo para mí.”_

And Oikawa sinks into Shoyo, into the pooling quiet of it.

* * *

“Get ready,” Oikawa says offhandedly, lukewarm, “because I’m going to beat all of you.” 

It feels insincere, when Oikawa says it. Something aching when he recalls Shoyo beneath him countless times, recalls himself seething with a vengeance when he hears tenderness carelessly given to someone, _anyone,_ but him.

In Oikawa’s hands, then: his TUMI silver luggage, already marred by scratches with age and travel. On his back, a plain, black backpack. Beneath it, his shirt that says ‘CA SAN JUAN’ in all caps, bold, burning through his skin, branding him, an agonizing reminder of why he has to leave. 

Shoyo had already rolled out his bicycle, _Bon Appetit_ insulated backpack already secure on his back, still too huge to be supported by someone of his stature. He tips his head back and meets Oikawa’s challenging stare.

Oikawa feels that Shoyo can’t sense his projection. Isn’t that always the case--spend a few nights in an unfamiliar terrain with someone and they can’t even sense the slight dip in your expression, the wistful tinge in your voice. 

Except this time, Oikawa reserves it for himself. Again: Shoyo’s anguish is very much his own; it’s his now, and he has to carry it on his back, along with his belongings.

“Thanks for making me _feel_ again, Shoyo,” Oikawa plainly states, voice undulating, his back scorching as he takes measured steps on the crossing, away from what he’s found familiar in Rio. 

“ _De nada!_ ” Shoyo yells in reply, and Oikawa’s skin melts from the letters and Shoyo’s stare on him, on his receding back.

* * *

Oikawa Tooru, 21, single, current residence: Argentina. 

Let it be known that he is, as of date, in Brazil with the rest of Club Atletico San Juan volleyball team--currently within his immediate vicinity. 

That he has his Japanese passport in one hand, the gold chrysanthemum of it smooth against the pad of his thumb. His luggage in the other.

That he marvels at the bird’s eye view of the Galeão airport, Googled ways before the whole team arrived at the very same place. (Oikawa thinks it’s wonderful that it’s named after Antonio Carlos Jobim, and he’s very fond of the way Águas de Março is the only song he knows--mainly because it’s what the airline played prior to take-off.)

That in a week, he had been shacking in with one (1) Hinata Shoyo in various places, all muscle and newfound strength, all tan and sunshine, all sunblock and sand.

That he finds ‘grief’ such a humorous word--it can be regretful of happenstance, a penultimate reminder of loss. It can be one (1) Hinata Shoyo, left in Brazil, left to his own life.

That ‘grief’ in Oikawa’s own perception is this: _to spend endless hours in bed, on the street, on the beach with someone, staring into them with no expectation of them staring back. Bearing over them, making them moan out your name, only with the realization that yours is only temporary on their lips._

That this ‘grief’ will stick with him, no matter how much he runs from it, from the moment he kissed it out of Shoyo’s body, from the moment touch unraveled them both, from the moment he became untethered.

That Oikawa Tooru, 21, single, found himself trudging towards the next boarding gate, in a hurry to shake Rio off his shoulders, with remnants of Shoyo clinging onto him, dust all over. 

**Author's Note:**

> HEYO you've reached the end of.. whatever this is!
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> [EDIT: My original thanks go to Miss [Ceece](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestexists/pseuds/celestexists) who, despite not being in this fandom, helped me a ton with my E-rated gripes. Of the "am I really gonna type out 'cock' and publish it on ao3" persuasion. She tha real OG.]
> 
> 1\. I'd like to thank A TON of people for bearing with my OiHina brainrot: ao3 users [SJpyeongpyeong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SJpyeongpyeong/) and [allicanseeispink](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink/), Twitter users [Ileana](http://twitter.com/errantfoodnoia) and [Gara](https://twitter.com/bokubakaashi), the Brownie Points Discord server and a TON OF OTHER PEOPLE whom I have badgered into reading gratuitous OiHina filth just because I have absolutely NO FAITH in my own skills (or lack thereof) in writing porn.
> 
> 2\. _Esta tristeza, esta dolor, todo para mí_ is Spanish--I had my friend translate my brainrot to me, and it means 'your grief, your pain/despair, all for me.' HAH
> 
> 3\. _Sim_ is 'yes' in Portuguese! _De nada_ , meanwhile, is 'you're welcome' in both Spanish and Portuguese!
> 
> 4\. Accompaniment playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5E0TqW0r7jqRXJv9zJNYo2?si=eYH8SqsqR7qHlS7bamHjEA). I've had a ton of users suggest stuff for me to listen to as I'm writing Oikawa (redacting) Shoyo. 
> 
> 5\. Also this song ([That's Why I Love You](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Ku9kSWtDQPC8bSWpHR7z0?si=omQcZzrsSZey8akXvTgM5g)) is the.. kind of vibe I wanted to emulate for this fic. Tell me if I done did it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope this filth tickles your fancy. Kudos and comments appreciated.
> 
> I'm also on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/entremelement)!


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